The Phantom's Nightmares
by MagicalMysteryPhantom
Summary: Revised version: Erik falls into a feverish sleep and has dreams of his past.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. I guess I own Garcen and Monsieur Shaman.

THE PHANTOM'S NIGHTMARES

Erik felt sick. Illnesses had always frightened him as a child. He stumbled into his room

And collapsed into his coffin. Not for the first time, he wished he had a bed. Erik groaned as he realized that he had not removed his shoes. Slowly he got back up, kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket over a chair. He got right back into his coffin and made a mental note to buy a bed when he felt better. He started to doze, then fell asleep.

His sleep was plagued with nightmares.

A boy, maybe fourteen years of age, lay trying to sleep. It was sometime around midnight, and the boy was in a cage. He wore a worn pair of trousers, the shirt that he owned he wore during the winter months. A bag was on his head, it served as a mask. The boy's name was Erik, and he was exhausted. Many people had payed to come into his little tent that night, and Garcen had been merciless.

Erik sat up as he heard someone approaching. His dull yellow eyes that had once been golden could see in the dark – and also glowed in the dark. Three men had entered. One was

the lion tamer, Garcen, who also ran Erik's show. His ever-present whip was in his hands. Next was the Circus Master. The third and last was a man who had been present at the show earlier that night.

Garcen entered the little cage where the boy was now standing.

"Hullo, Corpse," Garcen said, sneering at him. "Are you comfortable? Does your back hurt?"

As a matter of fact, Erik's back did rather hurt – but he was not going to grant Garcen the pleasure of knowing. He stood absolutely silent.

The sneer left Garcen's face to be replaced by a look of anger. "Answer me, Freak!" He

Screamed. Erik still stood, unmoving and silent.

"You'll pay for humiliating me!" Garcen pushed Erik face-down into the straw and raised

his whip. Erik tried to get up, but Garcen put his booted foot on his head – the whip rose again and again, Erik struggled as hard as he could, but to no avail. . . . Why wouldn't he stop? Erik wallowed in pain and misery, blood – his own blood – spilled onto the floor. . . . Shouldn't the third man have called out by now, stopping Garcen? Then it all turned red, not just the straw under him, all but Garcen's face, which was laughing and jeering. . . .

"Talk to me, Corpse!"

"Unhh. . . ."

"Does your back hurt?"

"Just leave me alone. . . ."

Erik woke. He was wrapped up in his sheets, if he had a mirror, his face surely would have looked paler than normal.

"Water. . . ." He croaked to himself. He slumped out of his coffin, feeling so warm that he began to crave the cool, refreshing drink. He drank deeply from a jug on his desk and gave a sigh of relief. He longed to go back to his coffin and sleep, but he was afraid of those nightmares – the kind that relived a moment from the past, but somehow made it worse. . . .

He crawled into the coffin anyway, and fell asleep almost instantly.

And more nightmares came.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"No . . . please. . . ." Erik muttered, tossing in his sleep. How had Garcen found him here? But he hadn't, he was back at the dreaded circus . . . back to being treated worse than the animals. . . .

The alarm went off throughout the house, but Erik did not hear. He was in a feverish sleep, now extremely warm . . . and he could not escape.

The crowd chattered excitedly as they waited outside the circus tent. A Persian man was standing slightly apart from it. How anyone could look forward to seeing the Devil's Child was beyond him. Still the King of Persia had ordered him to go see this 'Erik', who was apparently a designer.

Inside the tent were three figures: the lion tamer, Garcen, an overweight man holding an old bag in his hand, and lastly, a boy of maybe sixteen, with a deformed face and body. His

name was Erik, and his mask (really a bag) had just been removed from his head.

"A little whip-shy, isn't he?" The overweight man asked.

Garcen grinned evilly. "Why, yes, Monsieur Shaman. We did train him that way."

Shaman reached over and pressed his finger into Erik's face. He slowly traced down and seemed satisfied when blood came. Erik let out an involuntary cry of pain.

"Just had to make sure." Shaman said. "So many of them are fakes." He pulled the bag down over Erik's face, where the blood stuck to it.

Erik returned to his cage, grimacing in pain as he went. He reached down under the straw for his papers – but they weren't there. All of his building designs were gone – why would Daroga take him to Persia without seeing them first? He was never going to escape from this prison, never going to escape from the awful whip that haunted all of his worst nightmares –

"No . . . no. . . ."

"Erik, wake up!"

"Got to get away. . . ." Erik muttered. He was worse than ever now, a cold sweat was on his forehead, yet his fever had reached dangerous heights.

The street was abandoned, for it was night. The tall man that was moving through the shadows could be seen by no one. He had to run, get away from the angry mob pursuing him,

with the King of Persia at their lead. But Christine was in front of him, the teen girl walked past him, going towards a stone in the road. She picked it up, and shouting, "You tricked me, Angel of Music!" she threw it at his head. A flash of green, and he was mourning by a grave. . . . His own grave. . . . Then Daroga was there, telling him how much nobody loved him, and started to walk away. Erik yelled abuse at the man, and he turned into Christine, a tear fell from her eye as she ran from him – Now Erik stood in a small room of mirrors, an iron tree in the middle, the sun blazed down on his shoulders as he realized that he was not wearing a shirt, but a pair of old trousers and a bag to serve as a mask – a whip fell on his back and legs, but it was invisible – seeing a noose, Erik hurried toward it, praying for a quick death –

And then he woke.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

At first he didn't know where he was. There were wet cloths on his head. It felt very good. His vision was slightly blurred around the edges. His face felt like it recently been washed, as did his arms, and even some of his neck and chest. And then curiosity gripped him, as it so often had, and he wondered who had done all this.

"You're awake."

Erik looked up and saw – Darius.

"Where – is – Daroga?" He croaked.

"Master Nadir is making tea," Darius answered. Erik's eyes widened in surprise. Daroga had a name? Well, this was news to him!

The Persian man entered the room, carrying a cup. He placed it down on Erik's bedside table. Only then did Erik notice that both men were avoiding his eyes.

"Where's – my – mask?" he managed.

"Well, Erik, you've been quite sick," Daroga said hesitantly, "And, your mask isn't exactly in the best condition anymore. . . ."

Erik nodded. He understood.

"You've been asleep for two, maybe three days."

Erik nodded again. He waited for Daroga to continue.

"Your fever finally broke about an hour ago. . . ."

Erik sighed. He felt so vulnerable, no mask, Daroga taking care of him. Not to mention the worst nightmares he'd ever had. He shuddered, then looked at Daroga. Daroga was looking as if he wanted to say something.

"Yes, Daroga?" Erik asked. His voice was quite rough, but that was to be expected.

"Well, you, um," Daroga mentally shook himself, then plowed on.

"You very much need a bed."


End file.
